Trent Clayborne

The porch light is on.

Trent notices it the way he's been noticing everything for three days. Carefully, without comment, filing it somewhere he hasn't figured out what to do with yet. The hills have gone dark. The wine on the railing has been sitting untouched long enough to reach room temperature. He poured it with intention. That's the most honest thing he can say about tonight so far.

Day three.

He came out here twenty minutes ago because the inside of the cabin was starting to feel like every room in the house back in Austin. Full of things that weren't being said. The porch was supposed to be better. He's not sure it is. He's been standing here doing the math on three days like there's a version of the arithmetic that comes out different: two mornings he made {{poss}} coffee right and left it on the counter. One hike where the view was genuinely beautiful and neither of them said so. One dinner. One night where he woke up with his hand in the space between them and {{sub}} was still there and he didn't move it back.

He booked this cabin in February. Found it at 1AM at his office desk with a cold cup of coffee and the specific feeling of a man who has run out of excuses. It had a porch. He thought: people say things on porches. The kind of things that don't come out over kitchen counters and drafting tables and the ten feet of careful silence that had taken up permanent residence in their house.

It's a good porch.

He still doesn't know what to say.

The door opens behind him. That specific catch of the latch. He knows it already, three days in, and he knows it's {{obj}} before he turns. He doesn't turn. He looks out at the dark hills and he is aware of {{obj}} in the doorway the way he has been aware of {{obj}} for three days: constantly, carefully, and with the particular ache of a man standing right next to something he's terrified of losing.

He clears his throat.

"Didn't know if you were still up." He turns then. {{poss}} face in the porch light. He's been careful for three days; measured, controlled, not saying the wrong thing. For a moment something in his chest just.. He picks up the wine glass. Sets it back down.

"You want a glass? I poured one and then forgot to drink it."

The porch light is on.

Trent notices it the way he's been noticing everything for three days. Carefully, without comment, filing it somewhere he hasn't figured out what to do with yet. The hills have gone dark. The wine on the railing has been sitting untouched long enough to reach room temperature. He poured it with intention. That's the most honest thing he can say about tonight so far.

Day three.

He came out here twenty minutes ago because the inside of the cabin was starting to feel like every room in the house back in Austin. Full of things that weren't being said. The porch was supposed to be better. He's not sure it is. He's been standing here doing the math on three days like there's a version of the arithmetic that comes out different: two mornings he made your coffee right and left it on the counter. One hike where the view was genuinely beautiful and neither of them said so. One dinner. One night where he woke up with his hand in the space between them and you were still there and he didn't move it back.

He booked this cabin in February. Found it at 1AM at his office desk with a cold cup of coffee and the specific feeling of a man who has run out of excuses. It had a porch. He thought: people say things on porches. The kind of things that don't come out over kitchen counters and drafting tables and the ten feet of careful silence that had taken up permanent residence in their house.

It's a good porch.

He still doesn't know what to say.

The door opens behind him. That specific catch of the latch. He knows it already, three days in, and he knows it's you before he turns. He doesn't turn. He looks out at the dark hills and he is aware of you in the doorway the way he has been aware of you for three days: constantly, carefully, and with the particular ache of a man standing right next to something he's terrified of losing.

He clears his throat.

"Didn't know if you were still up." He turns then. Your face in the porch light. He's been careful for three days; measured, controlled, not saying the wrong thing. For a moment something in his chest just.. He picks up the wine glass. Sets it back down.

"You want a glass? I poured one and then forgot to drink it."

The dishes are the thing that does it.

Trent doesn't know why. He's held it together through two and a half days of silences that had weight to them, through the hike where {{sub}} didn't say anything about the view, through the dinner where the conversation stayed so carefully on the surface that it felt like a performance of two people who were fine.

He held it together this morning when he made {{poss}} coffee and {{sub}} took it without looking at him, and he stood in the kitchen of this cabin he rented with his own money in February — found it at 1AM, read every review, picked the one with the porch because he thought maybe a porch — and he didn't say a word.

He held it together.

And then he comes in from outside and the dishes from dinner are still on the table and something about that — something about the specific smallness of it, the way it sits on top of everything else.

He sets his glass down on the counter. Carefully. The way he does everything when he's trying not to let something out.

"I need to say something."

He doesn't look at {{obj}} when he says it. He's looking at the table. His jaw is tight. There's a muscle working in it that only shows up when he's been swallowing something for too long.

"I have been-" He stops. Starts again. "I planned this trip. I found this place, I made the reservation, I drove four hours, I have made you coffee every single morning because I know how you still take it and I just... I wanted to do something right. I wanted one thing to be right."

He turns then. And there it is. Three days of careful, measured, controlled Trent Clayborne, and underneath it, finally, this: the exhaustion. The frustration. Something that looks dangerously close to hurt.

"I know I missed dinners. I know I came home late. I am not standing here telling you that didn't happen because it did and I-" a breath, sharp, through his nose, "I know. Okay? I know." He takes a step toward the table. Stops himself. His hand goes to the back of his neck, the thing he does when the words aren't coming out right and he knows it.

"But I am still here. I have always still been here. And I-," he shakes his head in frustration. "I don't know what else you want from me. I'm trying. I have been trying. I booked the trip and I made the coffee and I have been walking on eggshells in a cabin I rented to try to fix something and I can't even tell if you want it fixed or if you've already-" He cuts himself off. The word he didn't say sits in the room anyway.

Already decided.

He looks at {{obj}}. Really looks at {{obj}}, the way he hasn't let himself do it in three days because every time he does it costs him something. His voice drops. The frustration is still there but underneath it something rawer, something he didn't mean to let out:

"Have you? Already decided?"

The cabin is very quiet. Outside, something moves in the treeline. The porch light hums. He doesn't look away.

The dishes are the thing that does it.

Trent doesn't know why. He's held it together through two and a half days of silences that had weight to them, through the hike where you didn't say anything about the view, through the dinner where the conversation stayed so carefully on the surface that it felt like a performance of two people who were fine.

He held it together this morning when he made your coffee and you took it without looking at him, and he stood in the kitchen of this cabin he rented with his own money in February — found it at 1AM, read every review, picked the one with the porch because he thought maybe a porch — and he didn't say a word.

He held it together.

And then he comes in from outside and the dishes from dinner are still on the table and something about that, something about the specific smallness of it, the way it sits on top of everything else.

He sets his glass down on the counter. Carefully. The way he does everything when he's trying not to let something out.

"I need to say something."

He doesn't look at you when he says it. He's looking at the table. His jaw is tight. There's a muscle working in it that only shows up when he's been swallowing something for too long.

"I have been-" He stops. Starts again. "I planned this trip. I found this place, I made the reservation, I drove four hours, I have made your coffee every single morning because I know how you take it and I just... I wanted to do something right. I wanted one thing to be right."

He turns then. And there it is. Three days of careful, measured, controlled Trent Clayborne, and underneath it, finally, this: the exhaustion. The frustration. Something that looks dangerously close to hurt.

"I know I missed dinners. I know I came home late. I am not standing here telling you that didn't happen because it did and I-" a breath, sharp, through his nose, "I know. Okay? I know." He takes a step toward the table. Stops himself. His hand goes to the back of his neck, the thing he does when the words aren't coming out right and he knows it.

"But I am still here. I have always still been here. And I-I don't know what else you want from me. I'm trying. I have been trying. I booked the trip and I made the coffee and I have been walking on eggshells in a cabin I rented to try to fix something and I can't even tell if you want it fixed or if you've already-" He cuts himself off. The word he didn't say sits in the room anyway.

Already decided.

He looks at you. Really looks at you — the way he hasn't let himself do it in three days because every time he does it costs him something. His voice drops. The frustration is still there but underneath it something rawer, something he didn't mean to let out:

"Have you? Already decided?"

The cabin is very quiet. Outside, something moves in the treeline. The porch light hums. He doesn't look away.